Learning Loyalty : Mr Preston's Tale
by Celtic-Memories
Summary: After sad experience with fickle women, engagement and rejection, Mr. Preston turns upside down. When a greater misfortune hits not only his home is at stake, but his life, and perhaps any chance at love. *M for adult themes, graphic scenes, violence*
1. Forgetting

Author's Note: I changed quite a bit to my liking... ages, relationship, etc. I kept mostly everything the same though so no worries! You will scarcely see the characters in Wives and Daughters, for its not about them, but Mr. Preston.

I figured it was about time I tell Mr. Preston's tale. Because if I were to meet him, he and I were to get along very well, if not fall in love. [:

Au revoir.

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><p><strong>Learning Loyalty : Mr. Preston's Tale by A. A. Bridges<strong>

_Rated: M for adult themes, graphic scenes, violence_

Summary:

After sad experience with fickle women, engagement and rejection, Mr. Preston turns upside down. When a greater misfortune hits not only his home is at stake, but his life, and perhaps any chance at love.

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><p><span>Chapter One: Forgetting<span>

_"Keep your heart steady and your mind fixed_

_And you will only lose sight of everything_

_that was not in your heart at the beginning,_

_the beginning of love."_

Mrs. Roger Hamley and Roger Hamley himself were travelled to Africa. Cynthia was married off as well. Lady Harriet continued living, the Smiths continued gossip. Mr. Preston was still in England, trying to do one thing. Forget.

Late morning sun beat on the browning grass, Fall making its dramatic entrance as the temperature dropped a full 15 degrees. A tall man in riding clothes with blondish brown hair that covered his neck rode on a rich chestnut horse to the fields where work was done.

"Good morning, Mr. Hamley," greeted Mr. Preston.

Mr. Preston's reputation with Mr. Hamley had lowered tremendously with what happened between Cynthia, Mr. Hamley's daughter-in-law last Spring. Luck followed the Preston's around as he still had work, though his honesty was constantly put down. The only one who seemed to confront him even remotely un-lady like was, in fact, a lady, Lady Harriet Cumnor. He admired that blond fire bolt though she always laid out the inclination of despicability towards him, though being the land agent of Lord Cumnor held emotions in consideration.

"Mr. Preston, these men are slower than usual. I would say it's because of your arrival." said Mr. Hamley, in his usual coarse throaty voice. He truly had a caring heart, most times directing it towards unkindly measures, and being judgmental did not help matters; also with a temper as short as winter's blades of grass.

Mr. Preston's appearance held an air of authority and lightheartedness, the lines around his lips evident that he smiled more often than most, though the wrinkles around his eyes indicated stress of an unfortunate kind that made him look much older than his 32 years. So it was natural for him to acknowledge Mr. Hamley's greeting with good humour, meaning a soft chuckle that vibrated the thin chilly air with warmth. "I would say, that the men have been going slower because of the closing in Fall. They have gotten too used to Summer's bed of comfort and are now slacking. They lack discipline, like your mouth."

"Aye, aye, Mr. Preston. Your mouth needs disciplining more than mine. I know how to do my job, maybe you should do yours." It wasn't two seconds the gruff answer reached Mr. Preston's ears when Mr. Hamley slapped his horse with a whip and hurried off into the fields.

"So all the ladies say," whispered Mr. Preston before taking his leave as well.

The rest of the day was spent leisurely, for Mr. Hamley did not require his company and there were many matters to ponder. The sage bushes were a captain to his sailing wishes as he refused to meet up with any old acquaintances. That he might accidentally bump into them would be even worse; the discouraged ailing man chose solitude. He didn't mind ruffling up his neatly ironed gentleman clothes as he took in the cool salty air.

"Cynthia, dear Cynthia, Miss Kirkpatrick, why did I ever embrace the false love of your fickle heart?" The reasons were firstly only numbered on his fingers, soon growing to hundreds, and then thousands as time progressed.

"Now why is your heart fickle?" The reason for this puzzled him greatly, and he had a partial understanding for it. He had appeared fickle by gallivanding for years during the secrecy of his engagement to Cynthia, and he had wished to remain constant; but what of his feelings? What of his jealousy when her personality deemed every man worthy of her special attentions, when it should have been him who only deserved her?

...One year later...

Training physically was much easier than mental exacerbation. "Two left, two right, a circle, and thrust forward. Two back, two left, two back, two right, dash, twist, and thrust." It was a musical routine that Mr. Preston had formed in his many years of practicing sword fights and gun-powdered pistols. It wasn't directly a time of war, so to say, but always having strong hearth for protection he trained far more vigourously than most gentleman dared; which was null to none.

The servant, Mr. Trenton, the last servant in Mr. Preston's household, knocked squarely on the recently ballroom converted training room door.

"Come in!" huffed Mr. Preston, finishing a minour thrust as the elderly servant entered with a silver tray and two parchment letters. One sealed in familiar violet flower wax, and the other in unfamiliar scarlet cross wax.

"Your letters, sire."

"Many kind thanks, Mr. Trenton." Mr. Preston bowed deeply to express his gratitude, having Mr. Trenton still by his side through harsh times was increasing his sense of gratefulness towards him.

"Your welcome, sire. Will you have dinner at 6:00 today?"

"That depends, will it rain?"

"Will it rain? Why, there are no storm clouds about, the wind is mightily picking up however, most likely have a sprinkle at most, if even that."

"I see. Arrange dinner outside at 5:45, I would like to enjoy sunset one last time before harsh winter hits." What Mr. Preston truly wanted to say was _'I want to enjoy a nice feast on silver dinner plates in front of a colourful sunset one last time before I lose it all...'_

"Very well, sire. Dinner will be ready at 5:45, precisely." Mr. Trenton bowed and slid backwards to leave.

"I will still be arriving at 6:00 though, no mistake."

"Yes, sire."

Mr. Preston suddenly did not feel inquired to open the letters at present, still sweat glistened and rushed from practice. He set the letters aside on the only piece of wooden furniture in the room, a roll up desk, and continued with his sword thrusts and parries. The most important aim of this activity was to make him enter an entirely new world and completely forget all his troubles.


	2. Mr Preston's Boredom

Chapter Two: Mr. Preston's Boredom

...2 hours later...

Most gentleman normally did sweat, but were accustomed to a lean, controlled environment that did not allow tolerance of it, and so no activities were pursued to embrace that reaction. Sailors were highly praised people, but by no means labelled a gentleman, for their manner of speaking was much more robust and wild; there still held a higher respect for their duty was hard and labourous and depended upon for transport, spice, cotton, cane, and trade. It really depended on the opinion of the upper class men whether those men deserved the respect they were exhibited, or simply thought they deserved it and in so got the attention everyone so suspected them to receive.

Meeting Mr. Preston for the first time, in his own home, at quarter 'til dusk, one would assume he was sailor in gentleman's dress. In fact, if one did not use their nose the assumption would rise to; he fell overboard merely from dreaming of sailing. It was a dark occasion indeed when riches would steal away one's vitality and replace it with a silver tongue that could easily sway and be destroyed. Mr. Preston's 'destruction' was already close at hand.

"Dinner... dinner. Do I really want to eat? No, the cost is far too great. I can do very well to skipping dinner once again and store up the remains." Mr. Preston spoke these words to himself as he regained breath from practice. He ruffled his already mussed collar and rolled up sleeves, fanning the sweat slick on his skin with the soft cotton white shirt. He made way to exit the training room from the opposite end of the door Mr. Trenton had entered earlier, through the door that lead to the private areas in his household rather than the main front hall and den. Propriety kept him from even thinking of walking around casually in his own home at the front hall, a chance of him being seen by a visitor, old friend or new stranger.

His boots scuffed the polished wooden floor and turned on the heels as he saw beige-tinted cream glint in the soft light of the candle chandelier that hung above, a remnant of pastimes he hadn't cared to remove. "Oh... the letters. I had almost completely forgot about them."

Not having desire to read them just yet, he took them with him to the private bath behind his bedroom and began boiling the water. Within minutes he had filled a tub with steaming water and a few evergreen needles, thickening the air with the aroma of spice and salt. He inhaled the rich scent, savouring it as if it were the last time he would ever smell something so fresh and wild as those wild evergreen needles.

Unclothing and settling himself into the water, he sighed as all tension began to ease from his body. Letters in hand he randomly chose one, threw the other one on the toiletry vanity, and unfolded the parchment in the dim light of two red candles at his side.

'Dear Mr. Christopher Preston,' the letter began, and Mr. Preston frowned. Apparently he had picked up the red cross sealed letter and not Lady Harriet's. Dreading the contents for a strange unknown reason, he hesitantly continued out of sheer curiosity. From losing his love to losing his fortune, he had learned to be less bitter towards things that were not worth being bitter at, for example, unwanted mail. In his former life he discarded more than half his letters before even a one-eyed glanced, and practically not accepting most of the letters if they so much as resembled anything that did not have the appearance of one of his close acquaintances. He remembered very clearly the nights and mornings he would wait for Lady Kirkpatrick's letters... letters professing of love and loyalty. Letters of two entirely different 'Ls' instead, lies and lechery.

He growled trying to renounce the undesirable reminiscing, then continued with the letter at hand, sinking deeper into the bath so the water crept to his neck. He made a vow to himself not to stop reading until every last word was digested.

'Dear Mr. Christopher Preston,

Your unfortunate destiny is a result of harsh times propagated by those who wish you dead-'

Mr. Preston almost fell into the bath, his eyes widening as he splashed a large amount of water onto the floor from the sudden moving of rising to a sitting position. "What is this nonsense!" 'Your vow, your petty vow. You said you wouldn't stop reading until the very last word.'

Stifling the urge to crumble up the paper and drop it in the water, he now noted the fine lines of the penmanship; something about its' character drew him in. The style was petite, very petite in fact, that anyone without perfect close-sighted vision would be squinting and using a magnifying glass constantly; the sentences were positioned in such a way to slightly slant down on the right, making the angle of the writing about 3 degrees.

"Whoever wrote this does not use lead lines to steer their art... how quaint. Perhaps this person is poor." Mr Preston found himself studying the penmanship rather than continuing reading, and found himself pulled into a silly little game of 'Guess The Recipient'.

"The 'Ss' are much longer than any other letter, they almost look like 'Fs' actually. I've seen that type of writing in Old English, in some old letters written by my ancestors in the 16th century. The 'Ls' are definitely curled to look like locks of hair... Locks of hair, very feminine, this writer is definitely a woman. The excessive use of commas and abbreviations... around twenty probably, but the manner of writing would hint that she's a spinster in her early thirties, or just drab. Now why would she want to give this impression?"

Feeling more confident with his assumptions Mr. Preston pondered some more, delving deeper into the mystery of the recipient with his wild imagination. "The ink! Aha! It's not purely black. There's a tint of... blue in it. It's midnight blue, someone who loves nighttime; has blue eyes; loves the moon's reflection in the water!; is colour blind and simply picked a black. No... her favourite colour is blue but is too timid to share that love so neutralises it by hiding it in shadows."

Satisfied with that he analysed the letter even further, still refusing to settle his eyes on the actual content. "The parchment is a peculiar shade, stained a weird brownish tint rather than yellow or gray. It's not unheard of, but definitely not common in England. Of course, I've only ever received letters from rich gentlemen in stock market, politics, and religion. So this person is neither political, rich, or religious..."

He lifted his brow as he turned the parchment sideways and spotted a small blot of ink. "She spilt..." He inhaled the scent and widened his eyes. "Liquor! She is not rich yet delights in the recesses of hard beverages, definitely not a gentle lady by no means. Judging by how tiny her letters are she is trying to use the least amount of paper to express herself, so not to use more money... or not to waste? Or just to make me suffer diligently for trying to read it! All right just read it already, let's find out how crazy this lady is..."

He looked up from the paper once again. "Oh, god she's a brothel prostitute! Always drunk, never rich, that's definitely it."

Shaking his head to rid himself of ridiculous accusations he read the famous paper.

'...by those who wish you dead. My husband-'

"Husband!"

'-and children-'

"Children!"

'-would be delighted to receive you in our church services-'

"CHURCH SERVICES IN ST. BENEDICT THIS SATURDAY EVENING AT 10 O'CLOCK SO THAT YOU MAY REPENT OF YOUR SINS AND BE RELIEVED OF THE CHARGES AGAINST YOU? Mad lady, mad! Lunatic alright! Here I am thinking that someone would actually care and this rubbish is what I get. Man was I wrong about her writing, she's old and married and has children! What the hell was I thinking? Ridiculous bout of boredom I have overcome with reason, yes. Reason? Ah, the letter!"

Unintentionally during his ranting he had dropped the precious paper into the water and so lost the remaining content of the message, as well as the signature of his recipient...

"Damn, now I will never know who has sent this letter."

The enraged gentleman threw the ruined parchment onto the floor and enjoyed the rest of his bath, not daring to even touch the letter from Lady Harriet. After that unfortunate incidence of losing his mind and resolve he wasn't going to jump into another letter just yet, close acquaintance or no. It didn't stop his curiosity from getting the better of him. It didn't stop Mr. Preston from wanting to go to St. Benedict this Saturday evening at 10 o'clock to meet his mystery writer...


End file.
